


Running Before Time Took Our Dreams Away

by Shamandalie



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, I got a bit carried away, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-16 12:01:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3487496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shamandalie/pseuds/Shamandalie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'I started drinking after.'</p><p>'After?'</p><p>'After someone hurt me so much I couldn't breathe.'</p><p>It's barely a whisper. He feels like he's suffocating, like the air once again stopped going through his throat. They sit in silence after that. Thomas is cracking his knuckles. He looks at Philipp's shaking hands, panicked, and Philipp really should get going.</p><p>'I was a footballer, back then,' he says instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Running Before Time Took Our Dreams Away

It goes like this: It's dark, always dark, when his alarm goes off. He moans quietly into the pillow and rolls onto his back, rubbing his eyes. He spends a few minutes thinking about going back to sleep, sleeping for eternity, without having to face reality and his life ever again. And then he always gets up.

He makes tea, eats one graham roll he baked the day before. He takes a quick shower, hot water almost burning his skin, and then dresses, droplets still in his hair. Before leaving, he stares into mirror for a few long seconds. _You can do this_ , he always thinks.

Streets are almost empty at 4 am. Sometimes he sees some homeless person wandering around, or two cats fighting for dominance. But mostly it's peaceful.

And solitude and peacefulness are the things that he enjoys most about his routine, about his work. They come with one important thing, silence. And he learned to love silence. It makes him notice and admire common things, normal sounds which usually go unnoticed by other people. He loves all the sounds his mornings are filled with - his kettle going off, boiling water coming into touch with his mug. He loves the sound of the key twirling in when he is opening his bakery. But the sound his big oven makes when he turns it on is his all time favourite. Because it means that another day has just started. That he survived the previous one.

But silence isn't always his friend. There are times, when after turning the oven on, he just stands there, apron in his hand, list of what he has to do hanging on the clipboard over the worktop, next to _Mia san mia_ sticker.

He stands there and almost hears the roar of fans filling the stadium. He almost hears that laugh, that particular one, which was his companion for long years.

In moments like these, he hates the silence. It still remains the best friend he has, though.

He never lets reverie linger for too long. He puts his apron on, even if he wants to lay on the ground and never move again. He puts it on, and starts to work. He kneads the dough, making bread, rolls. He fills cupcakes with sweet. He adds raisins and poppy seed where he has to. His gestures are mechanical, he knows all his recipes by heart. He knows the outcome of his efforts. He knows, more or less, how many clients he will have that day. He knows that after a long day of baking, then serving, he will be deadly tired, and he enjoys the thought. He smiles to customers, dismisses compliments about his pastries with a wave of a hand.

Sometimes his hands are shaking when he tries to put the key in, and at first he never knows why. But when he sits in his car, it usually becomes obvious. Either his bones are aching, and then he knows that his hands are shaking from tiredness. Or either he feels something in shape of hunger pangs in his stomach. He doesn't want food, though. His needs are darker, more dangerous, and definitely more...liquid. And sometimes, his hands are shaking after he's watched a football game on tv. But no one needs to know about any of his hand tremors, and about reasons behind them.

Everyday, he comes home. Or to his little flat, whatever, it isn't his real home even though it should be. It's definitely complicated.

He reads, sometimes. Sometimes he scrolls through his dead Facebook feed. Sometimes he calls Claudia, and she comes over, but it's different than it once was. She let him go. She's getting married. He's living, but he's dead, she says.

'Everything that makes me feel alive is highly addictive, Claui. Or long gone from my life.'

So she doesn't stay for long. Sometimes he listens to music, killing Appassionata time after time. Boring, one person he used to know would say.

Then he goes to sleep, dreaming about two men he could never have. Jim Beam. And Bastian Schweinsteiger.

And then it's dark, always dark.

This is how it goes.

-  
He answers his phone, giving his client an apologetic glance while handing him his lemon cupcake.

'Mom.'

'You will appear on our next family dinner this Sunday, Philipp. I don't take no as an answer.'

He sighs. His mother sounds like she's going to attack him with a bat if he refuses. It's not a new thing, but she gets more and more annoyed with their every conversation.

'I can visit you during the week, you know. I don't have to attend family dinner.'

'Yes, you do. I hardly see you anymore, not to mention your father or sister. I bet you don't even know your nephew's name.'

She's right, he doesn't. He would feel embarrassed once, but now he was just tired.  
He probably should apologize. Never mind.

'Philipp.'

'I'm here, mum.'

'You're a family man, darling,' oh no, not the patronizing voice, he thinks. 'You've always wanted a family. You're a man of tradition. It's time for you to find someone and -'

'I'll be there, mum.'

'And...What?'

'I said I'll be there,' he hears his mum sighing with relief, 'But now I have to go. Bye.'

He puts his phone away and moans. He closes his eyes and thinks how easy it would be to forget, stop worrying. He only had to close the bakery. Get into his car. Drive straight, turn left, then turn right. Leave the car. Get into the bar. Sit on a stool. Raise two fingers. Say 'Jim Beam'.

He hits the wall with full force, instead. His knuckles turn red and pain floods all of his senses for a few moments. He inhales sharply. It gives him something in shape of relief. He's in control. Right now, at least.

-  
Sometimes his leg hurts. Like someone was trying to cut it off with a dull knife, all without anesthesia. And he usually doesn't have any painkillers. Drugs trigger other needs inside him, the one he can't yield to if he wants to peacefully die in his own bed at the age of 80. But usually he's able to get into the little store next to his block of flats. This time he pushes the button three hundred times and the lift still refuses to appear. He lets a little howl escape his lips, and rests his head on the cold metal of lift's door. His leg, knee, is throbbing in pain. He limps through the hall and stops in front of a light brown wooden door, with a yellow mat happily saying 'Willkommen!' laying at the doorstep. He takes a deep breath and knocks.

'Coming!'

He tries to smile, probably looking more like Quasimodo than ever. Door fly open and Thomas, obviously smiling, pokes his head through them.

'Philipp! I haven't seen you in ages!'

'You saw me three days ago, Thomas.'

'As I said, ages. Come on in!'

'No no no,' he says quickly, " I just wanted to know if you two had painkillers? I'll buy them back -"

Thomas' eyebrows furrow and he looks at Philipp with concern. Philipp wants to scream at him, for god's sake mate I'm dying here, give me those painkillers -

'Are you in pain?'

He stares. Just stares. Trying not to scream.

'Yes. Yes I am.' he says as calmly as possible.

Thomas does a few things at the same time, then. First, he screams his wife's name. Second, he delicately but with determination pushes his friend - acquaintance, neighbor, whoever they were - through his door.

Philipp wants to protest, but he has no strength to do that. Thomas leads him to the couch, on which he sits willingly. He starts to massage his leg, letting exaggerated breaths out of his mouth. He hears Thomas and Lisa talking, but can't concentrate on their words, pain hitting him in waves, every single one worse than the previous. Then he feels someone putting some pill into his hand.

'More.' is all he's able to say.

'But - '

He just shakes his head. Lisa gives him two more pills and he swallows them down. It's almost like with drugs, like with alcohol. When addicts see their poison, when they know they will take, drink, it, they're already a bit high. Because their brains start to produce all those substances - whatever they're called, Philipp doesn't care - he only cares about the fact that he feels just a bit better just after he takes his pills.

'Thank you' he whispers, as he takes a sip of water from a cup Thomas handed him.

He blinks, once, twice, until everything looks sharp, not blurry from pain. Thomas and his gorgeous, young wife are staring at him, both so concerned and worried that Philipp wants to laugh at their innocence.

'It's not that bad,' he says to reassure them, even though it is. Last time it was that bad, he was still drinking. Few years ago, then.

'It looks bad,' says Lisa quietly and Philipp gives her a small smile.

He wants to go back to his flat, never see the pity in their eyes again, but the way back looks so damn long at the moment. Too long.

Thomas gives Lisa some mysterious hand signs, which she seems to understand. Couples. Philipp sometimes hates couples, but only because he himself once used to be a part of the cheesiest, desperately in love against everyone couple. But it was a long time ago.

'Would you like some tea, Philipp?' asks Lisa.

He nods and smiles at her again, hoping that this time it looked at least a bit sincere. She leaves, then, and Thomas cautiously sits next to him on the couch.

'I've always wondered why you were limping.'

''M not limping' mumbles Philipp, avoiding Thomas' eyes.

'Well, not always, yes. But you always put your left leg first, and sometimes you hold your right one, supporting it I guess? And sometimes you're limping.'

Philipp sighs, rubbing his temples with his hands.

'I had an accident. Ten years ago.'

God, it really was ten years. Ten awful years of this misery, ten awful years without -

Thomas looks at him with empathy written all over his face, showing him that he understands. Only he doesn't.

'I was drunk,' he says.

He never said it to anyone he met after. After everything. But now, he gave up. He doesn't care anymore, doesn't care what others will think. They won't hate him as much as he already hates himself, that's for sure.

Thomas nods and doesn't say anything, which is very unusual in his case. Maybe something that's written on Philipp's face stops him.

'I started drinking after,' how funny. He has two afters.

'After?' asks Thomas quietly, like he is afraid of destroying the atmosphere, like his words would scare Philipp, silence him.

'After someone hurt me so much I couldn't breathe.'

It's barely a whisper. He feels like he's suffocating, like the air once again stopped going through his throat. They sit in silence after that. Thomas is cracking his knuckles. He looks at Philipp's shaking hands, panicked, and Philipp really should get going.

'I was a footballer, back then,' he says instead.

Thomas' eyes widen.

'Signed new contract with Bayern and everything. And then I broke my leg in three places. Tore my cruciate ligament. Water in my knee. Ankle in pieces. End of career.'

He gets up, hand gripping tightly on the couch. It hurts, but he prefers it that way. He can fight physical pain. The other, not so much. Thomas looks like he's about to say something, and Philipp just shakes his head. He limps his way to the door.

'But it was ten years ago,' he adds before leaving, like it changes something.

-  
He still has Bastian's number. He doubts it's the right one, but. Sometimes he stares into his phone, thinking about possibilities. He likes to think about them, likes to think he has them. It's untrue, but all people lie to themselves. Some more, some less.

Sometimes he types a few letters and then erases them. Sometimes he angrily throws his phone away. But always, always after thinking about possibilities, he closes his eyes and sees him, right there, looking exactly as he did ten years ago.

Philipp knows how he looks now, of course. He watches matches. His hair turned grey at the temples and it suits him well. Captain's armband looks so good on him, also. But in his visions, no, in his vision - he only has this one, doesn't let himself think of anything else -he looks like he did that day. White boxers, that blue, too little shirt, messy hair, and this expression, full of mixed feelings.

Philipp wonders what if. What if he hadn't returned that day ( _Few days later, he would smile at you the same way. His smile would say sorry_ , he thinks), or if he had returned sooner ( _But when? When did it start?_ ) What if he hadn't gone on loan to Stuttgart. What if, what if, what if. What if Bastian hadn't said  _I don't think I love you anymore_. What if Philipp didn't believe that he was made to love only one person in his entire life.

His throat feels so dry during those what if's, and his stomach twists in knots. Sometimes he gets up, searching for hidden alcohol, which he well knows isn't there. Usually during those escapades, he bangs his head against the cupboard and groans, trying not to think about this little store next to his block of flats, which maybe doesn't have whiskey but definitely has beer and beer can do, it totally can do. Then he goes back to his bed, sweat on his temple.

Sometimes he masturbates, to release tension, thinking of Bastian with bottle of Jim Beam in his hand. It's tragic and pathetic, but what isn't in Philipp's life.

-

There are purple bags under his eyes, from working too much and sleeping too little, probably. His hair is a mess, he should definitely buy new shoes, his jacket hasn't seen iron in ages. He's also too sober for his own liking, but it's his permanent state. He's carrying bunch of banana cupcakes under his arm, though, and it's the thing his mother concentrates on after she opens the door. His sister hugs him really tight, rubbing his back, saying how good it is to see him, and he relaxes. It's only his family, he can do it. And then he enters the dining room.

The reason he avoids family meetings is that his parents consider Schweinsteigers a part of it. Which he once used to do, too. But it was ten years ago. And, honestly, it isn't like he wasn't expecting them to be there, he was used to seeing Bastian's parents as often as his own. (It was great, once. Their parents not only supporting their relationship, but also absolutely admiring each other. Philipp wonders if Bastian ever thought how much their...break up, he'll call it that - will affect other people. Their families. He doubts he spared them a thought. Or maybe he's just bitter.)

The problem is, Philipp wasn't expecting Bastian to be there. He also used to avoid this dinners. Well, maybe he wasn't avoiding them, maybe he was just busy being a professional footballer, playing matches every three days and -

'Philipp.'

His voice is so soft when he says it and Philipp kind of wants to die. Instead, he waves his hand awkwardly at Bastian's parents, avoiding the man himself, and sits heavily on a chair, letting sigh of relief when his body stops supporting itself on his bloody leg. Bastian looks at him questioningly, _he knows shit, doesn't he_. Even though he doesn't want to, he returns his stare. He hopes it looks daring, in style of 'Come on, say something, look at what you've done', even though Philipp knows this all isn't Bastian's fault. And that he probably just looks like a beaten up puppy.

His mum puts a vase with soup on a table, and suddenly everyone starts talking over each other.

'Congrats on your win, Bastian -'

'So, Tobi, how you and Sarah are doing?'

'Yeah, thank you, it was though but we've managed -'

'Philipp, tell me about this Thomas boy!'

It's silence after that. Philipp slowly tears his gaze away from a bottle of wine standing on the table, and he's met with Melanie's enthusiastic smile, questioning but full of hope eyes of his parents and Bastian's unreadable expression.

'What.'

He doesn't even have the strength to make it sound like a question. He's tired, oh, so tired, and this fucking bottle just stands there like they didn't know.

'Thomas! You talk about him a lot!'

Philipp raises his eyebrows. Considering that he talks with his sister maximum once a month, and it's usually about his what's-it's-name nephew, 'a lot' must have a really different meaning to her.

'Well,' he clears his throat, mischievous smile on his face, suddenly deciding he's going to enjoy it, 'Thomas is funny -'

His parents hum appreciatively.

'Very talkative, optimistic, quite good looking also -'

His sister maniacally nods her head in approval.

'But all his charms suddenly disappear when taken in comparison with his lovely, gorgeous young wife, Lisa.'

He smiles innocently, and Bastian bursts into laughter. Oh, how he missed that laugh.

'Philipp!' dramatic tone in his mother's voice makes him smile.

He became such a bad person.

It ends with everyone avoiding asking him direct questions for the rest of the dinner, so he just sits quietly and slowly chews his roast. He listens to the conversation, all of it somehow circulating around Bastian's life - his new tennis girlfriend, Bayern's situation in the Champions League and his last meeting with chancellor Merkel, when she told him he looked 'very handsome' in his suit. Philipp wants to start crying when he feels a hint of jealousy regarding Mrs. Merkel. So, so pathetic.

He decides it's time to go when the wine finally gets opened and it's smell fills his nostrils. His stomach clenches and twists. He wants to grab the bottle, take a huge sip (vomit it), take another one (vomit it again) and another, and another, til he can hold it, til it can warm and numb him.

He quickly makes his goodbyes, and the protests around the table, these oh no's and stay a little bit longer's, don't seem honest. They never do. He looks at Bastian one last time before leaving, trying to quickly remember how his hair look like now, how the wrinkles shape his face, how he smiles.

He lays his head on the steering wheel when he gets into the car, trying somehow to stop his stomach from making salts, trying to forget Bastian's face even though he wants to remember it always.

There's a knock on the window and Philipp jumps in his seat, jerking his head up to see who's trying to kill him.

Bastian. Of course. Corners of his mouth are raised in a shy smile. 'Sorry' he mouths to him, shrugging.

Philipp tries to return the smile, failing miserably, and gets out of the car when he notices that Bastian isn't going away, unfortunately.

'Hi.'

It's barely a whisper, and. Maybe it's hard for Bastian too. The thought makes Philipp angry. There's nothing hard in his ex boyfriend (ex everything, really) life.

'Hey.'

He can see Bastian swallow, Adam's apple going up and down. He wants to kiss him there, mark him, make him moan. Or maybe he wants to slit his throat with the sharpest knife he owns.

'I've been thinking -'

'Always a dangerous thing.'

It comes out more harshly than intended, of course. Philipp recently, or it was some time ago already, lost ability to communicate with other people properly. He feels the urge to apologize, but he doesn't.

Bastian swallows again, avoiding eye contact, probably regretting ever leaving the table.

'Yeah, I - well.'

Once, they used to understand each other without words. And even though they had this intuitive thing going on, they still liked to talk about their feelings. It felt so good, having the other person understand. What you felt, what you thought. It was even better, to be sure the other person felt the same. It was past now, though.

'It just - It's been years, Philipp.'

Ten of them. Ten years of misery, pain and alcohol (or thoughts of alcohol). Or ten years of love, admiration and success, on the other half. Ten years and he still haven't moved on.

'I know.'

 _Better than you_ , he wants to add.

'I miss you - I miss you as a friend. I miss talking to you.'

 _And I miss waking up next to you. I miss training next to you. I miss looking at you across the locker room. I miss the smell of the grass, of your sweat mixed with cologne, when you hugged me after I scored a goal. I miss dreaming with you about big careers ahead of us,_ he thinks. Instead, he just nods.

'Do you think that we could maybe... meet sometime and catch up? It's fine if you don't want to, completely fine, I just -'

He's so nervous, maybe even more nervous than that one time when he asked Philipp to be his boyfriend, when they were fourteen.

'Okay.'

Philipp's voice is croaked, throat dry, and he really needs to drink.

Bastian smiles, showing white teeth and crinkles around his eyes.

'Fine. Fine. I'll text you, yeah? The same number?'

Philipp just nods again and Bastian pulls him into an awkward hug, patting him on the back, not really touching. And then he's gone. Philipp inhales deeply,scent of Bastian's cologne still lingering in the air. It's even worse than the smell of the wine. Looks like he's addicted not to one, but to two things.

-  
Thomas sometimes comes to his bakery to help. He serves the clients while Philipp is cleaning his working space or doing all the accounting work. This time he's there because Philipp has to make this huge wedding cake and he must pay full attention to it. He hears clients going in and out, Thomas' laughing loudly and chatting even louder, and honestly, he could get used to that. Not dealing with customers, only baking.

He decorates the cake with white marzipan roses when his phone starts to buzz. He doesn't look at it when he' picking up, sure it's the future groom.

'You can pick up your cake in around an hour, sir.'

There's a silence after that.

'I'm interrupting, aren't I?'

Bastian. Philipp slowly walks out of thebaking area, so the oven doesn't stifle the sound of Bastian's voice. Thomas looks at him surprised - he usually doesn't go out in this state, messy hair, dirty apron, cream in corners of his mouth.

'No, you don't. I thought it was someone else, is all.'

Bastian laughs nervously.

'I know I said I will text but -'

_I wanted to hear your voice._

'But - So I was wondering if you're free on Saturday? My coach just told me that he'll rest me during the next match so I'll be home? We could watch the match together.'

Philipp bites the skin around his middle finger, feeling dizzy and empty at the same time.

'If you want, of course.'

Bastian sounds so uncertain, and Philipp wants to ask him when he's started to doubt him so much, when he's started to think that he could say no to him and hurt him with his refusal.

'Yeah, I'd like that.'

He will just hurt himself, instead. It's easier and he's had enough practice.

He takes a few deep breaths after hanging up, and sits heavily at one of the tables. He hides his face in his hands.

'Philipp? Are you fine? Who was that?'

Thomas lays his hand on Philipp's shoulder.

'Yeah I'm - Just someone I used to know.'

-  
Sometimes he watches The Video and curses Tobi for ever thinking that recording it was a good idea (It was great idea to be fair). He doesn't know what is more painful - watching the younger version of himself being someone he doesn't remember he was, or thinking about how people around them were in love with their love. Philipp suspects that Tobi was the only sixteen year old boy in the world whose mind crossed the idea of recording his younger brother interacting with his boyfriend during his birthday parties all over the years.

They laughed at him that he stalked them, or was jealous, but then he told them that he just wanted to play The Video at their wedding. It shushed them; Bastian punched Tobi jokingly on the arm, cheeks only a tiny bit red.

So now Philipp has that cd, with Bastian's birthday parties recorded on it. How many nights he spent watching this and drinking (or thinking about drinking), he doesn't know. Enough times to know it all by heart.

First scene, they are sitting next to each other, not really touching, cheeks a bit red all the time, at glorious age of fourteen. They're eating a cake in shape of a ball and Philipp places a sloppy kiss on Bastian's cheek. (Time for the first drink.)

Second one, it's all different. Philipp chats with Bastian's parents like they are his own family (and they were). His parents are also there, and few of their colleagues from Bayern, few kids from school. Philipp sings 'Happy Birthday' louder than anyone else, and after Bastian blows all the candles, he's being pulled into a suffocating hug.

It looks like that, happy chaos, young love, until Bastian's eighteenth. Then it changes it's pace. (Time for another drink, or thought about drink, whatever) First there is a sequence from some club, full of people, their teammates, some girls, no parents. There is a new season ahead of them and they're all oh, so happy. Philipp only pats Bastian on the back, keeping it friendly. Until the second sequence happens, that is. It's a family dinner, Philipp's parents are also there. Philipp slices the cake which he baked himself, not a perfect one, but Bastian still smiles like he loves it. He gets a long kiss on the lips from Bastian after the toast, Melanie cheering them on. He sees himself giggle against Bastian's mouth, whispering 'Basti', face so fond he can't believe it's his own. His boyfriend just smiles at him.

He sits on Bastian's lap during 21st. It's all really disgusting and he can't believe he let himself be fed in front of his and Bastian's parents. Bastian french kisses him and Philipp laughs. Philipp remembers it clearly - they've been all over each other all holidays, trying to make up all the months they've been apart and the ones they would be. Fucking loan to Stuttgart.  
And then comes the moment when everything becomes too painful to watch it sober. Bastian says he's now a full adult, even in the United States. Philipp smiles and mentions that recently same sex marriage was legalized in few of the states, first in Massachusetts.

'I'd like to marry you,' Bastian mumbles against Philipp's mouth before kissing him.

'I can't wait til it happens,' he hears Bastian's mum say, before he switches off his tv and throws the remote across the room. It hits his Deep Purple poster, tearing it in half. He moans and hides his face in the pillow. Jim Beam. Jim Beam. Jim Beam.

-  
Saturday comes way too soon for Philipp's liking. It isn't a good day - when he wakes, it's way too early to be up, and his leg is pulsing in pain. But when he looks into the mirror, he doesn't think about surviving; he only notices that his hair really need a haircut, that he looks pale, unhealthy, tired. He tries to do something with it, attempting to look like he used to, but he knows it's impossible. He was a child when everything happened. He had a baby face, his big eyebrows made him look 'ridiculously cute', as Bastian put it. Now his features became sharper and smiling was a hard thing to do, so. He shaves, all of his usual stubble, and that makes him look a bit younger. Then he puts some gel in his hair. It's ridiculous, all of it. His efforts to look good, like he was going out on some date. It wasn't a date. It wouldn't be a date, even if Bastian wanted it to be. Some things...some things are unforgettable. And sometimes, that makes them unforgivable.

He drives through Munich, leaving his dirty, grey streets in favor of apartments and parks and shop window's screaming 'wealthiness' at him. He isn't poor, but he lost loads of money when his first bakery turned out to be a fiasco. Then he spent the rest on opening another one. He is the type who never gives up, always trying, even if he failed miserably before. That's why that injury -accident - was so hard to accept. There was nothing he could do, nothing he could fight for. Zero possibilities.

When he finally stands in front of Bastian's door, his leg is on a verge of giving up. He had to climb stairs, since the lift appeared to be broken. He knocks, desperately trying to catch a breath. Minute later, he hears footsteps approaching, so he quickly fixes his hair.

Bastian is wearing his Bayern tracksuit bottoms and white top, which is hiding approximately nothing. Philipp tries not to look at his collarbones. Or at anything, really, so he ends up scanning his body up and down, because he fails at everything recently. But, God, Bastian is so beautiful it would be a sin not to stare. Through the shirt, Philipp can see his abdomen muscles and pink nipples and he really, really needs to put his tongue there. And really needs to drink.

Bastian is polite enough to ignore his stare and invite him in (Few years back, he would tease him for eternity for staring like that. But now they are strangers), smiling like a little sunshine he is. And always was.

The apartment is... big. Spacious, even. Modern, full of light, and probably very expensive to live in. Not that Bastian has to care for expenses. Philipp feels a hint of jealousy, _I could've lived the same way._

'Welcome to mi casa. That's French for front door!' says Bastian in dramatic tone and Philipp looks at him baffled.

'No, it's not.'

Bastian laughs and that's when Philipp realises that it's probably some quote from the movie he'll never see. Bastian always loved to confuse him. ( _Poor, little Fips_ , he would say. _You know nothing about pop culture_.)

'Would you like to sit down?'

Yes, he would. His leg definitely would. Instead, he just walks towards the living room's wall, desperately trying not to limp. Bastian follows closely behind him, his scent flooding Philipp's senses.

They stand in silence for few long minutes, Philipp's eyes scanning through the photos plastered to the wall.

'The four star captain...'

Bastian just nods, eyes shining. Philipp is so, so proud of him. He's come so far.

'Wish I was there,' he says in small voice, looking at the picture of whole team with their hands raised up high, screaming, Bastian in the middle, lifting the trophy.

'I wish you were there, too.'

Philipp nods. He clears his throat, once again too dry.

'You had a great tournament, Basti.'

Nickname slips from his lips like it was a days, not years, since the last time he used it.

'I thought they were going to kill you, during the final,' his laugh is forced, and he knows Bastian hears it, 'But you had none of it.'

Bastian's eyes are questioning. He doesn't know where Philipp is going with this all, but he's... supportive. He stands as close to him as possible without touching, and. It's too much. Philipp's eyes get wet and he really needs to fight it.

'I was very proud of you, y'know. Very proud.'

He turns around and walks towards the couch. He sits on it with a sigh and looks at Bastian, who still hasn't moved.

'You limp.'

It's easy to see that he's shocked. Philipp probably should assure him that it isn't that bad. Only, it is.

'I do.'

He looks at Bastian, challenge in his eyes, daring him to say something, to say how sorry he was, to turn his head away with pity in his eyes. Bastian holds his gaze.

'Do you want some beer?'

Philipp tries not to laugh. They used to know everything about each other. Now, Bastian has, had, no idea about the two most important things that define Philipp.

'No, thanks.'

Bastian's face drops a little, but he still smiles.

'Okay, so I'll just myself one and we'll -'

'No, please'

He heard that some people like him had a higher tolerance of the smell, but, well, he didn't. Watching Bastian drink would be the end of his abstinence, he knows that.

Bastian gives him a bewildered look, but sits on the couch next to him nevertheless. Not too close, though. He turns the tv on, right on time to see the squads. Manuel Neuer is the Bayern's captain, in Bastian Schweinsteiger's absence, says the commentator.

Philipp can't concentrate on the game. Bastian is too close and too far away at the same time. Before, they used to snuggle on the couch, Bastian's fingers in Philipp's hair. They used to murmur in each other's ears, kiss when they became too distracted to continue watching. They never did this like this, even when they were fourteen and just started to spend time together, going on dates and testing the waters they didn't know. He misses those times, but not enough to ignore the feeling that this all is wrong. So, so wrong. They sit here like nothing ever happened, like everything is _fine_. Maybe it is, for Bastian. But he isn't the one who got hurt, isn't the one whose life fell into pieces.

Bastian cheers when Mario Gotze scores the first goal for Bayern. Philipp remembers them hugging after wining the World Cup, tears in his ex boyfriend's eyes, fingers tangling in younger boy's hair. He wonders if Bastian ever thought about - or maybe they did -

'I can't take this,' he mumbles and stands up.

He can't take being jealous about Bastian when he has no right to be, and doesn't want to have this right, because he doesn't want to be friends, lovers, with Bastian. He just wants him to disappear. He just wants to forget.

'What?'

Bastian's voice is panicked, eyes wide as he abruptly stands up and catches Philipp's arm.

 _Don't touch me, don't touch me, don't touch me_ , Philipp thinks, and then his mouth is on Bastian's lips, and his hand is nagging at man's neck, and only thing he thinks is _closer, closer, closer, I missed you, I missed you, I missed you._

But then Bastian is returning the kiss, tenderly holding Philipp's chin in his fingers, slowing the pace and. _No._

Philipp pushes Bastian away and stumbles backwards, bolts of pain going through his brain as he puts all of his weight on right leg.

'Philipp.'

Bastian's voice is hoarse, his cheeks are flushed from the kiss and Philipp wants to cry. But he doesn't do crying, not anymore.

He turns away. He starts limping his way out of this expensive apartment, he really should see the doctor, he shouldn't be limping that much -

'Don't touch me,' he says as he throws Bastian's hand off his shoulder.

'I missed you,' says Bastian from behind him, voice barely audible.

Philipp has never felt more angry. He turns around, facing his ex lover, and god, he wants to make him suffer. He wants him to cry, break down.

'And?' he just snaps.

Bastian looks at him with big eyes and Philipp wants to hit him.

'I'm sorry.'

Philipp laughs, loudly, bitterly.

'Oh, now you're _sorry_. How great. Should I thank you now? Almighty Bastian Schweinsteiger, god of football, just apologized me. I should probably be grateful. Thank you, Bastian. Thank you.'

His voice sounds hysterical, even to him. He should back off now, if he wants to save his face.

'I really am sorry, Philipp. What else can I say?'

'Sorry is not enough, you fucking asshole!'

Philipp screams, so loud, too loud. Bastian twitches and takes a step back, like he's afraid, and. Philipp should stop. He takes a deep breath.

'There's nothing, do you hear me? Nothing you can say, or do. Nothing.'

Bastian just stands there, his eyes locked on Philipp's face.

'I missed you. I thought...I just want to make things right.'

Philipp laughs again. It comes out more like a sob.

'How? How are you going to make things right? You will heal my leg? I suddenly will stop being a drunk because of you? Will you resurrect my career? You will take away all the years of pain, loneliness and longing I had to live through?'

Bastian looks at him bewildered and just shakes his head.

'No? That's what I thought. That's what I fucking thought.'

Bastian looks like he's about to cry and Philipp needs to stop. He doesn't want to hurt him. But there's nothing he wants to do more, also.

'Where have you been all this time? Where have you been after I had an accident? Where have you been when doctors told me I'll never be able to play again? Where have you been when I needed you the most?!'

He screams, again, but this time he's not able to stop.

'Oh, wait, I know where have you been! You've been fucking that guy, remember? The same one you've been fucking for months while I was away in Stuttgart, missing you like crazy, thinking about marrying you. You probably had your dick high up his arse while I was buying this fucking ring - '

'What?'

Bastian has tears in his eyes, but Philipp can't bring himself to be sorry about it.

'What ring?'

He doesn't know. He's forgotten that Bastian doesn't know. Suddenly, all of his anger vanishes. He wraps his arms around himself.

'I - I knew we couldn't get married for real. But, I don't know. I thought we were forever thing. And you always liked the idea, so.'

He swallows, and Bastian looks like he's on a verge of break down. Maybe he is.

'I thought I will propose to you? I mean, I thought we survived my loan so we'll survive anything, and.'

Bastian's breath is ragged and he knows he's trying to stop himself from crying. Philipp is so, so tired.

'So I bought this ring, and. That's why I returned earlier than I told you. I wanted to surprise you. Do something like _Hi, I'm back, will you marry me?_ '

Bastian cries and it's heartbreaking and satisfying at the same time. At least once Philipp isn't the one who's hurting.

'But he was there. And you told me you didn't love me anymore. That's why sorry isn't...and never will be enough.'

He looks at Bastian one last time, at his puffy, red eyes, white shirt wet in places where he wiped his tears. He forces a smile and then leaves, thinking about stopping by the closest bar and emptying the whiskey bottle in one, huge sip.

-  
He tries to forget. Again. Properly, this time. He used to think that if Bastian came back, it would get easier. That he would be able to forgive him. And himself.

Bastian never was the type of a saviour, though. Usually he was the one who needed protection and assurance that he's needed, loved. He was an insecure kid, and Philipp was the one waking up the confidence in him. And now he's the one who's a wreck of human being, surviving, not living, day after day.

Maybe he made a mistake, once. Maybe he should've been more interested in things that weren't football or Bastian. Maybe then, after losing them both, it would've been easier to live through, without depending on alcohol.

Bastian used to party, used to hang out with his friends, used to watch NBA, staying awake during dead hours of the night for it.

Philipp read when Bastian was partying, waiting for him to come home, so he could safely put him to bed, give him aspirin and spoon him. Sometimes, he went out with Bastian and his friends, always sitting by his side and listening, while his boyfriend was chatting with everyone. Literally everyone. And sometimes, they would hang out with Philipp's old friends. They always laughed how, unexpectedly, it was Philipp who became a part of a couple everyone dreads for being too cheesy, but secretly admires and feels jealous of. When Bastian was watching NBA, Philipp slept. Even though he loved basketball, and NBA. But he slept, because they had practice in the morning and hell, practice was sacred.

Once, there were only two things he truly cared about. Bastian was the first. And he lost him.

'That's when I started to drink,' he tells Thomas, even though it isn't exactly true.

That was when he started to get drunk. Before, he often drank beer, sometimes wine, champagne once a year. But he never got drunk, because he loved control. Being in control. But you can't forget when you're in control, and after he couldn't close his eyes without seeing Bastian standing there, wearing shirt that definitely wasn't his own, saying those words - he started to favor forgetting over controlling. So he started getting drunk.

And once, he got so drunk that he doesn't even remember it. He only knows that he was driving. Next thing he remembers, is pain. It's the only thing that he remembers.

It happened after he left hospital, crutches in his hands, pain in his leg, death sentence. That's when he started to drink because he needed to drink.

Thomas sits there, looking sad and Philipp regrets opening this damned mouth of his.

'I'm sorry,' he says, 'I shouldn't put it on you. I just needed to tell someone.'

'That's fine, Philipp. I just - I'm out of words.'

Philipp laughs and it's honest.

'We must write the date down, then,' he chuckles, 'Because it's probably the first time it happened in your life.'

Thomas also laughs, but he still has this concerned expression on his face, so Philipp points at the tv.

'Tell me what's happening there. I don't know anything about horses.'

It isn't the smoothest change of the subject, but Thomas loves talking about his father's horses, so he doesn't complain.

-

He's putting chocolate muffins on the shelf when the doorbell goes off. He sighs with relief - it's not a good day, he only had six customers and half of them bought only bread.

'Good morning!' he says enthusiastically, 'What can I get for you?'

He places last muffin, the one with pink frosting (It's Alyssa's favourite, and when her mum buys it for her she also buys a cheesecake, so. Good business.) on the shelf, and turns around, surprised that that the person still haven't said anything. Next second, he understands why.

'Hi,' says Bastian.

He tries to maintain his professional smile.

'Hello. Can I help you?'

'I know I shouldn't be here. You made that clear that you don't want to see me and -'

He stops, looking at Philipp, at his cold smile and clear indifference. He swallows, clearly not knowing what to do.

'That pink muffin looks good,' he finally says.

Philipp nods, reaching for the muffin. No sweets for Alyssa today.

'That will be one euro'

Bastian points at the coffee machine, last used few weeks ago. Two little tables standing by the window are probably covered in dust.

'It doesn't work,' says Philipp, 'Or at least I think it doesn't. You probably just need to switch something. Who knows. No one drinks my coffee anyway.'

Bastian nods and hands him the coin. Philipp hopes that he will leave, but he obviously sits on the chair at one of the dusty tables.

Philipp stands behind the counter. He watches Bastian taking an enormous bite of his muffin, raising eyebrows at him. He's trying to provoke him, Philipp knows that, but provoke him to do exactly what? To throw him out of his bakery?

'It's delicious.'

'Glad you like it.'

Bastian licks corner of his mouth, to get rid of chocolate stuck in there, and Philipp will go crazy if he doesn't leave.

'So, this boyfriend of yours...What was his name again?'

'I don't -'

'Does he rims you right?'

Philipp chokes on his own saliva.

'What the fuck, Bastian?!'

Oh, he's throwing him out, he's totally throwing him out. He almost runs to him. He's going to hit him, that bastard is going to loose all of his white, shiny teeth, that smirk is going to vanish from his face -

'Just wondering. I know how much you like well skilled tongue on-'

'Shut up! You have no right to say things like that!'

He grabs Bastian's arm, trying to make him stand, but the younger man is strong. So, so strong, his muscles -

'I told you there was nothing you could do and then you come here uninvited and -'

And Bastian grabs him by the wrists and pulls him close. He kisses him, hard, forcefully, and Philipp moans, sits on Bastian's lap, trying to bring him even closer, he's always too far away, why there are clothes here -  
Bastian bites his lower lip, bites his neck, it's all happening so quick and Philipp's head is spinning, but he knows it's wrong, so wrong. But he can't stop.

'Kitchen' he says in between kisses and Bastian stands up, groaning. Philipp wraps his legs around his waist, arms around his neck, and next thing he knows, Bastian presses his body to cold metal of the oven and tries to unzip his pants. He looks at him, swollen lips, eyes shade darker from lust and. He wants to stop this, stop this right now. Instead, he lets Bastian suck his neck, touch him in all of the places he haven't been touched for such a long time. He closes his eyes, imagining Bastian's girlfriend sitting there somewhere, thinking about her boyfriend while he's-

God, he wants to cry again and this is so bad, so so bad. And maybe Bastian feels Philipp's swing in the mood, or maybe he recovered the thing called common sense, because he backs off.

'We shouldn't,' says Bastian, still breathless, and Philipp loves him. Really fucking loves him.

He nods. They look at each other, neither of them knowing what to do, nor say. They are strangers, after all. Strangers sharing past, maybe, but strangers nevertheless.

Bastian takes one step in his direction and Philipp really wants to run away. He likes to be sure. He hates the situations of which he doesn't know the outcome.

Bastian's fingers hover over his cheek for a second. He wants to lean into the touch, but he doesn't. Bastian takes his chin between his long fingers and lifts it, so Philipp looks right in his eyes.

'Give me a chance, Philipp,' says the younger man, 'I know I fucked up. I know I waited for too long.'

God, he's a coward. He just wants to scamper away from his own fucking bakery, wants to hide in his flat, Jim Beam's bottle as his only companion.

'I'm not the person I used to be,' he just says, voice barely audible. _You won't love the new me. I hate the new me._

'Neither am I, Fips.'

Bastian stops for a second, looking a bit scared, but also weirdly determined.

'But I want you. Footballer, baker, whatever. I know I'll still love you the same.'

Philipp's hands are shaking, again. He doesn't know why.

'I lied, you know. When I told you I didn't love you. I did.'

'So why did you lie? Why did you cheat on me?'

He finally said it, finally asked the question he was asking himself for years.

'Why I wasn't enough?'

Bastian shakes his head.

'You were. I just. Didn't know that back then.'

Younger man takes a step back and laughs bitterly.

'No, forget it. I was an idiot, and that's all. I don't know why I did this. I told myself I was too young to be so tied up at such young age, even though I always wanted it?'

Bastian shakes his head, like he's truly amused by himself.

'I wish you could see me during my twenty second birthday. _I miss Philipp, I miss Philipp'_ , he smiles hearing his mocking tone, 'My mother threw a knife on a table and gave me twenty minutes long lecture on how it was all my fault...And I couldn't argue.'

Philipp smiles again, but Bastian is already back to being serious. He nervously fixes his hair.

'So, how will it be?' his voice is so soft and Philipp wants to kiss him for so long that his lungs will start screaming for air, 'Will you let me take yourself out for a date?'

Philipp bites his lips, not sure if he can trust his voice.

'If not, I will understand,' adds Bastian, 'And I promise I'll leave you alone.'

 _Well, it would be better if you promised me you will never leave me again_ , Philipp thinks before smiling again.

-  
He has doubts, of course he has doubts. The last decade made him insecure, mistrustful. _It's just a date_ , he tries to remind himself. But. It doesn't stop him from thinking what if. What if it doesn't work out, how he's going to survive it? What if, someday, he will give up and obey alcohol calling him, how Bastian will take it?

The one thing he's sure about is that he loves him. Loves him as much as he did when they had sex for the first time, after two years of waiting, because Philipp wasn't ready yet. Loves him as much as he did when they stood hand in hand at the sidelines, debuting together in Champions League. Loves him as much as he did when he was breaking Timo's heart back in Stuttgart. Loves him as much as he did when Bastian told him, very drunk with spiced wine, that they were forever, that he was all he ever wanted, and then bought him one of this ridiculous gingerbread hearts, which Christmas markets are always full of.

So, he'll try. He'll try to forgive him, or maybe he already did. You can't choose to forgive, Philipp learned that. You either do or don't, and maybe he was trying to stay angry for all this time just to keep himself from falling apart.

He smiles when he hears knocking, and grin appears on his face when he sees Bastian standing in the doorway. Younger man hugs him, still awkwardly, but it's still much more comfortable than before.

'Where are we going?'

Philipp nibbles nervously his seatbelt, worrying that they'll end up in some fancy place he won't fit into.

'You'll see.'

And he does. It's an old bar, Liselotte's. Philipp is surprised that it still exists; last time he was there, more than decade ago, it was already on verge of bankruptcy. It's a happy surprise, though. Bastian in dramatic move opens the door for him and bows while he's getting through them. Philipp promises himself that he won't laugh, but he still giggles. He almost forgot how ridiculous (and charming) Bastian can be.

Nothing changed at Liselotte's, and Philipp's throat clenches. Partly because of emotions, partly because the scent of the beer isn't maybe overwhelming, but it's definitely there. They sit on high stools at bar counter, in their old spot, chatting lightly.

Suddenly, Bastian's face drops.

'Oh my god, I'm so stupid there's alcohol here we can definitely go somewhere else -'

He says it all on one breath and Philipp laughs. He squeezes Bastian's hand, holding it a bit longer than necessary, and that's when Matilde spots them.

'OH MY GOD!' she screams, and almost drops the vodka bottle she's holding, 'Where have you two been?! I thought you died!'

She shuffles toward them through the tables, puts vodka violently on the counter and pulls them into a suffocating hug. She's always been melodramatic ( _I wanted to be an actress, you know. But then this asshole broke my nose and goodbye, Hollywood,_ she would say to anyone who was willing to listen, and to ones who weren't).

'Well, not _you_ ,' he points at Bastian, 'You're in tv all the time.'

Bastian raises his hands.

'Guilty,' he says jokingly and winks at Matilde.

'Oh you think you will get away so easily, don't you? No way, you must tell me everything and then I'll decide if I'll forgive you - What are you laughing about, Philipp?'

He covers his mouth, trying not to annoy her (she talks even more when she's annoyed)

'I almost raised you two! You had your first beer under my cautious eye! I let you make out on my bar's couches, and what I got in return? You two disappeared!'

They spend next half of an hour creating unbelievable stories about what they've been up to for all this time, and Matilde possibly even believes some of their stories. Then they drink coffee, and another one, and third at 1 am when Ti is closing the bar.

Bastian drives him home, and if he kisses him a bit too passionately (considering that it's officially their first date) before getting out the car, no one has to know.

-

There are some things that change, and some that don't. Sometimes, his leg hurts so much he sees white. Sometimes, only thing he can think about is alcohol. Sometimes, he sits on the floor, and the memories of the accident, of Bastian doing what he did, are too much. But now, during those times, Bastian gives him pills, distracts him by telling him some anecdotes about the Bayern team, sits with him on the floor, wrapping his muscled arms around his tiny body, rocking him back and forth, whispering sweet nonsense in his ear.

On good days he bakes shitloads of pink muffins, and he becomes quite popular in Bayern's team, since Bastian feeds everyone his sweets.

First time they make love, it's sweet, tender and very passionate at the same time. They rediscover their bodies and it feels so, so good. They listen to adaggietto from Mahler's fifth symphony after, and Bastian doesn't say a thing about it. Which is an improvement.

There is no talk of forever, not yet anyway, but they know. They knew since they met for the first time, on Bayern's training field, when they were fourteen. They knew they've been a forever thing.

-  
It's dark, always dark when his alarm goes off. He moans into his pillow (or into Bastian's hair, or chest) and then sits. But he never leaves bed without doing this one, little thing. He always sits there, chilly night's air giving him goosebumps, and looks at Bastian. Sometimes, he can't believe he's really there. Sometimes, he wants him to leave, because. Some things at the end can be forgiven, but they can't be forgotten. But most of the times, he just lets himself admire and love the boy sleeping in his bed, features soft, hair messy. Everyday, he kisses his temple. And that's when his day starts, not when he turns on the oven.

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY so it probably has like two thousand mistakes i'm sorry  
> i'm sending virtual hugs to whoever read this  
> it should be longer though, i just fucked it up  
> unbeta'ed  
> title from 'high hopes' by pink floyd  
> i'm p-lahm on tumblr  
> i like comments


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